


Comfort from the storm of life

by amberfox17



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Thor Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki finds him, as he always does; Thor has never had the trick of finding Loki, not even in their games as children, where his brother would vanish as Thor counted, leaving Thor to blindly search until he gave up in frustration, only for a giggling and gleeful Loki to tumble out of his hiding place as Thor cried for the game to end.</p><p>There is no laughter now, but Thor feels that same bitter mixture of relief, envy and irritation as Loki appears in the crowd, as if from nowhere, as if he had been there all along. He is elegant and effortless in his dark Midgardian suit, his only concession to his Asgardian self the green and gold scarf that coils, serpentine, around his white throat; he looks a stranger, just another mortal man in this human herd, but Thor will always see the wolf in him, the predator lurking within the dim and doubting flock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort from the storm of life

_Serenity isn't the peace away from the storm, it's the peace at the eye of the storm - Anon_.

Thor sits with his hands held loosely in his lap and watches the mortals mill about. He is not entirely certain where he is, only that it is a conflux of train lines and roads and all the other means of mortal transportation, a white, shining temple dedicated to the meeting of pathways, a waystation on the journeys of this middle realm.

He has left his armour behind, for today he is no Prince of Asgard, but neither does he wear the fine clothes provided by Anthony Stark, for this is not the business of the Avengers. He has slipped their electronic leash, and looks as unobtrusive as he can, playing the part of being just a man, alone and lonely, waiting for a companion who even now is moving along the road that will bring him here.

Thor has wandered and watched and now simply waits, perhaps calmer than he should be. All around him mortals greet and part, say goodbye and are welcomed home, and this is why he has chosen this place, the point of separation and reunion, a space where all journeys are possible, at least until you take that first, fixed step.

Thor knows of something of journeys. He divides his time between two realms, two lives and two selves, and finds no difficulty in doing so. Thor is happy, both in the long, golden days of Asgard, where he walks the slow and winding path of his destiny, meandering ever closer to the throne and his time as King, and on Midgard, with his quicksilver companions, where he goes into battle with a light and laughing heart, delighting in defending this mortal Realm and all its flickering, bright glories.

He is happy too, to lay down his weapons and sweep up his ladies; Sif and Jane may be different on the surface, but they share a fierce spirit and Thor finds joy in the arms of both. Thor has always been drawn to a certain type, to fearlessness in the pursuit of one’s goals, to quick wit and a sharp tongue, to dark hair and long legs and a challenge in a pair of bright eyes –

Thor loves both Jane and Sif; he loves too the Warriors Three, his parents, his mortal friends, his people, all of Midgard and the Nine Realms too. His heart is boundless in its generosity: his love for each is not diminished by his love for the others, just as the perfection of a single raindrop is not marred by the fact that it is but one jewelled droplet in the rainstorm. The rain feeds the rivers, and the rivers flow to the sea; the sea does not lessen when the rain rises to kiss the land, and so it is for Thor.

But there is another love in Thor’s heart, one that does not quench but ignites. Though his blood may have proved cold as the winter, Loki will always be wildfire to Thor: deadly, unpredictable and leaving nothing but bitter ash and destruction in its wake. Loki wakes the lightning in Thor, the fire that splits the sky, and every time they come together it means only ruin and pain and fresh scars for them both.

And yet they cannot seem to separate, no more than lightning can strike without the crash of thunder.

This is Thor’s third life, third self; the one that hangs in the balance between the other two, suspended in the moments that belong to neither, existing only in the spaces where possibilities meet and are not yet decided. Loki was his brother, is now his enemy, and yet he too has a third self, one that appears only on the paths that lead nowhere, only in the spaces between the raindrops. As brothers they loved, as enemies they hate – they move forever in the circle of their hearts.

Yet there cannot be a turning without a fixed point on which to spin, and in the axis of their longing and loathing is a quiet, settled place where the two halves meet. It is for such a meeting that Thor has cast off his other selves and let his feet guide him here, to wait as he knows he must wait, to be found as he knows he will be found.

Loki finds him, as he always does; Thor has never had the trick of finding Loki, not even in their games as children, where his brother would vanish as Thor counted, leaving Thor to blindly search until he gave up in frustration, only for a giggling and gleeful Loki to tumble out of his hiding place as Thor cried for the game to end.

There is no laughter now, but Thor feels that same bitter mixture of relief, envy and irritation as Loki appears in the crowd, as if from nowhere, as if he had been there all along. He is elegant and effortless in his dark Midgardian suit, his only concession to his Asgardian self the green and gold scarf that coils, serpentine, around his white throat; he looks a stranger, just another mortal man in this human herd, but Thor will always see the wolf in him, the predator lurking within the dim and doubting flock.

They do not speak. There have been words enough between them and will be again: threats and pleas, disappointment and spite, hate and love and all that lies between. There is nothing new to say, and so they say nothing at all. Loki merely offers a hand and Thor takes it, clasps it, rises and follows, palm to palm, their fingers entangling in a promise of unity.

Skin to skin at this one small point of contact they walk; the arrangements are always made by Loki, for all that is Thor who choses where to wait, and they move silently but with some haste until they reach a room that will suit their needs. Here, they expose themselves, shedding their clothes and all else that swirls around them, so they can meet, skin to skin, palm to palm, bodies lining up like warped mirrors, opposites and equals, all wrong and all right.

It is impossible to say who moves first, for the desire is mutual, and they fall into each other like stars tumbling through the celestial void, gravity dragging them together as they collide in an orgy of want and need. Thor gives and gives and Loki takes and takes and it will never be enough, for either of them, but at least here, in the press of their bodies, in the meeting of their flesh, there can be a resolution, a victory for them both, where the warm wetness that stains their skin is born of pleasure and not pain.

Locked together, they are at war, and they bite and claw and strain, but this is a battlefield they know well, and they wind ever tighter as they chase their joy, the sweet satiety they will bring the other, sweat-slick and sighing, moving as one, perfect whole towards ecstasy. When it comes, it comes like wildfire, roaring through them, burning them to ash; it comes like the storm, shaking them to the core, leaving them deaf and blind and mouthing hopeless, helpless cries into each other.

But once is not enough, not for two such as these, and their passion rises again and again, clinging to each other’s flesh as if they could find an absolution there, as if they could wash themselves clean of everything outside their tangle of limbs and the promises that only their eyes will speak. It will not be so. This is a short respite, a brief comfort, and nothing more, and even as they slump, exhausted at last, they know it to be so.

All too soon, the thunder will roar and bellow and the fire will hiss and spit. But here, in the silence between strike and storm, there is space enough for two figures to lie curled into one perfect circle, sharing a single breath between them, and for now there is only a stillness that might be mistaken for peace.

Thor kisses Loki gently on the mouth and receives the same in return. It is what they have, for now, and he will take it, will hold it tight and keep it close, that he may weather the storm when it returns, this small comfort a beacon in the darkness. For all storms will eventually pass and every fire will eventually burn out, and the earth, though scorched and scarred, will remain. This he knows, as he too knows that from such fury the most fertile ground is born, and so he carries hope in his heart, that from these silent and secret moments in the eye of the storm, something new and strange and wonderful is even now beginning to grow, and that one day it will take its place under a bright and clearing sky.


End file.
